


Touch

by youwerefantasticrose



Category: Avengers, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youwerefantasticrose/pseuds/youwerefantasticrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a completely new experience for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

_every kiss is a cursive line_

_every touch is a redefined phrase_

It’s a completely new experience for him. He’s been touched before, of course: Frigga’s hands ruffling his hair, an affectionate punch on the shoulder from Thor, the rare touch on the shoulder from Odin. But the first time Rose touches his hand, it’s like he’s never felt it before, like touch is something brand new.

It’s the barest contact, her hand resting on his for a second as he stares down at the floor. For the first week he’s in her flat, he barely speaks, barely eats, barely exists. But tonight when he smells food around dinnertime, he actually leaves the room he’s been hiding in, heading to the kitchen, rather than waiting for her to leave some outside of the door like she has been.

She’s surprised to see him, he can tell, but she hides it, simply giving him a nod as he takes a seat at the table. A few moments later, she sets a plate down in front of him and then slides into the chair across from him.

“Alright?” she asks, digging into her food with a fork, her eyes conspicuously away from his face.

He doesn’t speak, just nods and picks up his own fork. She hides a smile, and he watches her a second longer, then starts to eat.

After that he joins her every night for dinner. It takes a while for him to actually speak, but it happens. More and more, until he’s progressed past “Fine” when she asks how he is, until after a few weeks he asks her how she is.

She laughs, actually laughs, when he asks, and he has the impulse to smile. He fights it, of course. But when she picks up his plate after they’re done eating, she reaches out and presses her hand onto his, just for a second. Their eyes meet just as their hands do, and for a second he’s lost, the warmth of her brown eyes and her open palm like a bucket of ice water tossed over him. Then she’s gone and he sits there for a few minutes, his hand flexing on the table.

After that he emerges from his room more often (and he begins thinking of it as his, too). Conversation doesn’t come easily at first, but over time they start a routine. Small talk over the table, until more comes out. They slowly learn more about each other, though they both have walls up against their broken parts. But such important things are hard to ignore, and they start to bleed through. She’ll start a story with a bright voice and wide gestures, then stop in the middle abruptly and excuse herself, not emerging from her room for the rest of the night. He tries to tell her stories too, but trips over the words ‘brother’ and ‘father,’ until he trails off into silence. But from this they both figure out enough about each other, even with just pieces of the story.

Until one night, when Rose comes home late from work. She flips on the light and Loki’s there on the couch, staring at the floor. She jumps.

“Shit!” she says, tossing her stuff on an empty chair and putting her hands on her hips. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He doesn’t say anything, and she stays there for a second, looking at him. Then she makes her way to the couch, sitting next to him. He’s rigid next to her. She’s quiet, but she reaches out and takes his hand, fingers lacing through his. They stay like that for a few minutes, and then she’s telling him everything, about the Doctor, all they did, and the worst day of her life, on that beach in Norway. He listens, keeping his hand in hers, and when she’s finished, he starts. He talks and talks, telling about growing up second, finding out who he really is, and everything he’d done once he’d found out. He expects her to run, to drop his hand and tell him to leave, but her grip just grows tighter and he continues, her hand in his an anchor. When he’s finished, she squeezes, and he realizes that sometime in the past hour he’s relaxed, leaned back against the sofa with shoulders loose, like something’s lifted off him. Just then she leans over and lays her head on his shoulder, her warmth seeping into him. He breathes in, feeling something near alright for the first time since he landed here, and he turns his head to rest on hers, their still linked hands resting on her knee.

Rose isn’t stingy with touch, and even with time, he knows he’ll never get used to it. When he’s reading, she squeezes his shoulder as she walks by. When he teases her, she shoves him playfully, her tongue poking out from her lip as she smiles up at him. He stops being able to fight his own smiles; it’s like her joy is transferred through her hands. Every time they make contact, it seeps in, diluting the sorrow and anger he’s been keeping bottled up.

But she can’t get rid of all of it. One night he lashes out, cruel words about her Doctor and her endless hope, and she slaps him, her hand stinging across his cheek. It doesn’t hurt him, physically, but he’d rather that when he sees her face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking down, as she starts to storm from the room. She stops, then sighs, turning around. She steps in front of him, and he looks up.

“Say it again,” she says, hand on hip.

“I’m sorry.”

She smiles, a little sadly, then reaches up and touches his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into her hand.

“’S okay,” she says, and then she steps up onto her tiptoes and puts her arms around him. For a second he’s unsure, and then he hugs her back, holding her to him. After a moment, she pulls back.

“Night,” she says.

He lays awake that night for reasons he tries not to think about.

A few weeks later, it’s Monday morning and Rose hasn’t left her room. Loki leaves his around 10, and realizes she’s still there.

He taps on her door lightly.

“Rose?”

“Go away,” he hears through the door.

He starts to obey, but he hears her sniffle and changes his mind, pushing the door open.

She’s in bed, hands over her face, and she’s crying. At the sound of the door opening, she looks up, and he notices how red her eyes are.

“What are you doing in here?” she says, her eyes welling up. “I said go away.”

He shakes his head, stepping closer to the bed. She glares up at him as he reaches it. He kneels down next to the bed, and she looks away, sniffling.

“Please leave me alone,” she says.

“No,” he replies.

She turns toward him, suddenly angry. “No?” she asks, reaching out and pushing him. “No?” Her voice rises and she pushes him again. He lets her, and she balls her hands into fists, hitting his chest over and over. After a few minutes, she pulls back, sobbing, and then he reaches for her, his arms going around her. She leans into his chest, and cries. He just holds her, rubbing circles on her back, and then she’s clinging to him, her hands gripping his shirt. He wants so badly to give her what she gives him, the comfort simply from touch.

“It’s okay, Rose,” he says into her hair. “I’m here.”

After a while she calms, and she pulls back, her hands still on his arms. She looks up at him, and he reaches up slowly, tracing his fingers over her cheek.

“Thank you,” she says, and he nods, pulling her back into him.

The next morning he wakes up in her bed, her blonde hair splayed over his chest, his shirt still damp from her tears. He reaches out and grazes her hair, and she stirs, rolling off of him onto the mattress.

He gets up as quietly as he can and heads to the kitchen.

Rose wakes up a few minutes later to an incessant beeping. She reaches for her alarm clock, but the sound doesn’t stop.

She rushes into the kitchen to find a disheveled Loki in front of the stove, trying to put out a small fire.

She shrieks and he turns, his face panicked, and she grabs a towel, beating at the flames until they go out. They stand there, both breathing hard, and then she looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry!” he throws his hands up. “I was trying to make you some breakfast, and—”

She interrupts him with laughter, and he stops, a smile reaching the corners of his mouth, and then she’s moving towards him, stepping up on tiptoes and pressing her lips into his. For about a third of a second he’s frozen, and then he’s kissing her back, his mouth opening against hers, his hands gripping her waist and pulling her against him. She makes a little noise of surprise and happiness, her hands tightening around his neck, and he can’t remember ever feeling like this, and he never wants to let it go, let her go.

After a moment she pulls back for air, and their foreheads come together, their breath mingling between them.

“Alright?” he says, his hand reaching for hers, their fingers intertwining.

“Yeah,” she answers, squeezing his hand, and leaning in for another kiss. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is like three months old, but I forgot to post it here. So here you go!


End file.
